


Opportunity Cost

by athena_crikey



Category: Hogan's Heroes
Genre: Drama, Gen, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: In order to stop a chemical scientist, the Heroes must rescue his daughters from  the Gestapo. Things get more complicated when they turn out not to be as seemed.





	1. Hogan

**Author's Note:**

> Importing some old fic from LJ/FF.net

The black staff car came rolling smoothly into camp, gleaming darkly in the late afternoon sun. As soon as it had drawn to a stop in front of the Kommandantur steps, the driver hurried out to open the back door, the guard in the passenger seat moving in synchronization with him on the other side. From the driver’s side emerged a Gestapo colonel in a crisp newly-pressed uniform, black hair carefully slicked back and sharp face set in an expression of distaste. On the other side an older man with long, uncombed hair and a flowing dirty-grey beard tumbled out, dressed in rumpled tweeds and carrying a worn briefcase. The colonel marched stiffly around to the old man’s side and escorted him into the Kommandantur, the private on guard on the stoop snapping to ramrod attention as soon as the colonel’s foot touched the first step.

Hogan and his men, cleaning the laundry outside Barracke 2, watched it all without bothering to hide their attention – any break from routine was automatically and unquestionably a subject of great interest in the Stalag. And, as soon as the two men disappeared into Klink’s office, the laundry was abandoned in its baskets as they hurried into their own building to plug in the coffeepot. The signal came in just as the men were introduced to Klink.

“ – from the Gestapo,” announced Shultz, in his best sergeant’s voice.

“Ah, colonel, it is a pleasure to have you here at our lovely Stalag. I hope your journey –”

“Never mind that,” snapped the colonel in a sharp baritone, slicing through Klink’s fawning quick as a knife through rank butter. “I need the use of your Stalag for a week or two.”

“To use – Colonel, I cooperate fully with the Gestapo, of course, but this is not a hotel. You cannot just come in here and commandeer this camp as though it were a, a car!”

“Do you see this?” a rustle of cloth, presumably the colonel indicating his insignia. “This means I can, Colonel …”

“Klink, sir,” said Klink, dejectedly. “And yes, you can. May I ask what you need it for?”

“No. All you need to know is that Doctor Kirche here is doing work of extreme importance. The Allies would very much like to have him disappear before finishing it. For that reason, I have brought him to your Stalag,” the man’s tone suggested a litany of other options up to and including dog kennel would have been more attractive to him, “so that he can finish his work in safety. You are to put a heavy guard around your quarters, and see that none of your prisoners comes near it.”

“Yes, si – _my_ quarters?”

“Of course, Klink. You don’t expect one of the most illustrious scientists in Germany to work out of your mess hall?” The colonel’s voice was sharp as a slap, and Hogan could almost hear Klink wincing.

“No, no Colonel, of course not. My quarters, clearly. I will have them prepared at once.”

“Good. I will be residing temporarily at the Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg. You can reach me there at any time, although I don’t think I need tell you how angry I will be to be disturbed for no reason?”

“No, Colonel,” agreed Klink. The Kommandant had completely given up, thoroughly beaten down by the other colonel in less than two minutes.

“Very well. You will, of course, contact me as soon as the formula is complete. I will be stopping by for regular reports as well. Heil Hitler.” A rustle of cloth and a deject echo of heils, and the Colonel marched out of the office.

Hogan pulled the plug on the coffee pot. “Kinch, get on the radio to London and find out what they know about this Dr. Kirche.” He sighed, voice tempered by distaste. “Sounds like we may be doing some dirty work pretty soon.”

His XO nodded, serious. “Yes, sir.”

* * *

Hogan was watching Carter and LeBeau lose at poker to Newkirk – toothpicks were the stake of the day; the only prisoners who played with Newkirk for anything of actual value came right out of the truck – when Kinch reappeared from the tunnel with a blue slip.

“Got an answer from London, sir. Dr. Kirche is Rainer Urs Kirche, a prominent biochemist. He’s working on the formula for a poisonous gas.”

“What’s so special about that? The Boche have dozens of them.” LeBeau threw three toothpicks into the pile of kindling in the middle of the table without looking at Kinch.

“According to London, this one’s near instantaneous. No chance for anyone affected by it to get off a shot or destroy any sensitive materials they’re working on before they’re overrun. London’s orders are to either turn him and send him to England, or make sure he doesn’t finish the formula.”

“Permanently sure, I’m guessing?”

Kinch nodded, eyes heavy. “That’s right, sir.” He handed Hogan the blue sheet; the colonel glanced over it, then handed it back and stood slowly.

Newkirk whistled quietly. “D’you think this could mess up the Underground’s work tomorrow, sir? Took us all week to get that dynamite to them.”

“I don’t see how – no increase in patrols in the area, as far as we’ve heard. They should be safe to blow up their bridge. Still, better let them know.” He glanced to Kinch, who nodded and went back to the tunnel. Hogan sighed, tapping the paper against his leg. “Fine. I guess I’d better go talk to the doctor, then. Find out whether he’d rather leave here in a tunnel, or a box.”

* * *

The man was scribbling away at Klink’s dinner table when Hogan came up through the floor, sitting with his back to the stove and papers spread across the table in a passable recreation of a snowstorm. Closer to, his tweed suit was both worn and stained and his thick greying hair was tangled. He bent over the table in a posture that suggested both urgency and disregard for personal comfort; he didn’t notice the American until Hogan coughed

The doctor dropped his pencil as he spun around, eyes wide and frightened in what little of his face was visible between his long unkempt hair and thick curling beard. They were dark and wrinkled at the edges, either by age or fear.

“Who are you?” he asked, in German. Asked, Hogan noted, not demanded. A trend he had enough experience with prisoners of the Gestapo to recognize. The colonel chose a stiff stance and a hard expression; with no knowledge of the man’s sympathies frightening him into defecting might well be the easiest solution.

“Colonel Robert Hogan, senior POW officer here.” He kept his sentences short and clipped and didn’t take his eyes off the man.

“If you’re trying to escape, you’ve come out in the wrong place,” said the doctor, frowning.

“I’m not. I’m here to see you, doctor.” He kept his arms ready at his sides; if the doctor had as much experience with the Gestapo as he appeared to have, he would know that while crossed arms appeared threatening a loose stance was much more efficient for the actual use of force.

The doctor glanced past Hogan at the stove, sitting spun-out next to the wall. “You did not dig that to visit me.”

Hogan patted it, and it slid back into place above the dark hole. “No, it’s part of our system. We’re a bit of a unique camp. We provide aid, to some.” The implication was clear enough. The doctor’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t shrink away. Not so easily cowed, Hogan noted.

“And to others?”

“Look, doc. I’ve been ordered to give you two options. You can stop working on your formula and go to England, or you can stop working on your formula and leave camp in a pine box.” He raised the edge of his coat to show the butt of the gun tucked into his pants, still opting for the easy muscle approach.

The doctor, to his surprise, sighed and pushed away from the table. He turned to face Hogan in earnest, resignation rather than fear in his stance. “I would be happy to go to England. It is not by my will that I work on this formula.”

Hogan frowned. “Then why? The Underground would have helped you escape any time, you have to know that.”

“Yes, I know it. The problem is not me. The Gestapo is well aware of my reluctance in working for them. When I first began to draw close to the completion of the formula, and began to show signs of stalling in earnest, they took my daughters hostage. They cannot complete the work themselves, but their tame scientists can predict how long it should take me to, based on my previous rate of work. They have decided I will be finished in two weeks at the latest.” The man paused, and then looked straight into Hogan’s eyes. The colonel saw that he wasn’t so old as his appearance, and his attitude, made him seem. Maybe only a decade older than Hogan. He spoke in a low tone, frustration curling it at the edges like flame against paper. “If I am not, they will kill my daughters.”

Hogan hissed through his teeth. The man nodded, eyes drifting away again.

“Yes, they are devils. Some weeks ago I tried to sabotage my work. They found out, somehow, and sent me a lock of Elise’s hair. Next time, they said, it would be an ear. So you see, Colonel, I have no choice but to continue working for them. I have drawn out my work for as long as I can, but there is not much more chance of stalling.” The man turned back to the papers spread out in front of him. “I would happily burn all this, if I could. And my doctorate, all my diplomas, along with it. But I cannot lose my daughters. I have already lost my wife to this war. I will not lose them.” He slowly reached out a stiff hand and drew a paper closer to him. He picked up his pencil again, and began to read over what was written on the page.

Hogan watched with a cold anger spreading like frost through his blood, hardening his resolution. At last he spoke, voice harsh in the recognition of the possible difficulty – and potential price – of what he was offering.

“Look, professor. If we could break your daughters out, would you agree to go to England?”

The doctor gave a short, dry laugh, did not even look up. “It is not possible. The Gestapo, they do not allow escapes.”

“It hasn’t stopped us before. Where are they being kept?” Hogan passed over the difficulties; he knew them all, they might as well have been stamped on his dog tags. Poured on right to the details. No point thinking about the water, the easiest way was to jump right in.

The doctor put down his pencil again, and turned, face sober. “Your dedication is admirable, Colonel, but you are a prisoner of war. And you do not know Colonel Veheim. I have heard that even his superiors tread cautiously around him. His subordinates…” the man shook his head, pityingly.

“Well, we’ll handle him when we get there. Where are they being kept?”

The man shrugged. “Veheim keeps them close, in case he needs to threaten me quickly. They will be in the Hammelburg Gestapo headquarters, where he is staying.”

Hogan shifted, coat falling to cover his gun again. Caution finally put the breaks on his reckless dive, forced him to ask the right questions regardless of personal sympathy. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but how can you be sure they’re alive? Hair’s not much proof.” No proof at all.

“He lets me speak to them on the phone, once a week. I spoke to them two days ago, before we came out here from Dusseldorf. They were alright then. As well as they could be, in the hands of the Gestapo for two months.” He shivered, eyes turning down to the table. Hogan didn’t shiver, but he felt the chill creep along his spine all the same.

“Alright. We’ll see what we can do. The sooner we can get all of you out of here, the better.” Hogan turned back to the stove, then paused. “We’ll have to get you out of camp legitimately before you disappear – we can’t have Klink taking the fall. Think of some reason to go into the town tonight; you’ll have to get away from the guards while you’re there. They think you’re on their side, it shouldn’t be too hard.” That, at least, was one mercy. The fact that they would be Stalag guards was another.

“And my daughters?”

“We’ll pick them up too. They can’t go missing before you, or Veheim’ll come down on you like a ton of bricks. Just have everything with you when you leave – and make sure not to leave behind anything that could help them with the formula.” He indicated the table-full of paper. The doctor nodded, slowly.

“I understand. I will be ready. But… if you can truly do this, it will be a miracle.”

Hogan pulled at the stove, and flashed a bright careless grin. “Better start praying, then.”

* * *

In the barracks, the men were still playing cards. Newkirk was still winning. Carter was still losing. Nothing new there.

They looked up as Hogan ran up the ladder and climbed over the bed frame.

“Well, sir?” asked Newkirk, laying down a card.

“Well, turns out the doctor’s working for them under duress. They’ve got his daughters locked up in the Hammelburg headquarters.”

Newkirk whistled. Beside him, LeBeau made a face, while tossing some more picks into the pile. “Well, that’s it then. We will have to send him to England by force.”

Carter and Newkirk nodded, turning away from Hogan to pick up on the game again. Hogan took a breath and walked over, all energy and charisma, to disrupt the game.

“Hold it, hold it! What’s with all this defeatism?”

The men raised their heads in slow tandem to stare at him, identical expressions of disbelief flashing across their faces. Newkirk took the toothpick from his mouth and waved it like a cigarette. “You can’t be serious, sir! That’s the bloody Gestapo HQ, that is. Abandon all hope ye who enter, and all that. We can’t just pop in there, grab two girls, and pop out again.”

“We broke Tiger out of the Gestapo headquarters in Paris – that branch’s four times the size of Hammelburg’s,” said Hogan, keeping his tone light and milking the charisma for all it was worth.

“Yeah, sir, but the way Louis tells it that was mostly luck,” put in Carter, highly sceptical. LeBeau gave him a dirty look, but shrugged under Hogan’s gaze.

“ _Desolé_ , _mon colonel_ , but it is true, you know. If it hadn’t been for Marya – she was _fantastique_! – and Klink’s trip, we would never have succeeded. And you cannot play the grand American Black Marketeer here in Hammelburg.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I say we’re going to do it all the same.” Hogan crossed his arms heavily, signalling a change from cajoling to straight facts. “Kirche isn’t going to leave without his daughters and I’m not gonna shoot the man for family loyalty. He’s stayed this long because he doesn’t want his daughters’ ears sent to him in a box, followed by God knows what.” Hogan raked his eyes over the men and their eyes dropping as his passed over. He nodded, sensing the change in the mood and confident that the men, once convinced, would hold the line.

“Right. Newkirk, make up papers for their release. Get their names from Kirche – one’s Elise. LeBeau, you’re coming with me. You and Carter check the uniforms, I want a Gestapo major and a corporal – wait, get one for Newkirk too. Private; doesn’t have to be perfect, he’ll stay in the car. And Kinch, we’ll need a mobile radio set and a car from the motor pool.”

The men stood and scattered with a chorus of “yes, sir,” hurrying around the table and down into the tunnel. Hogan sat down on a bench, turned to stare at the abandoned card game, and tried to think.

* * *

“Here’s how it’s going to go.”

It was four hours later, down in the tunnel. Outside the sun had long since set, the cool early-autumn evening soft and dark. There were a few weeks still before the real crispness of fall set in; for now the leaves were just beginning to turn on the trees and the smell of smoke was starting to drift up from the town after dark, but the nights were still warm enough for sabotage missions in black shirts alone to be possible.

Hogan, straightening his tie, had taken his place in front of his men. LeBeau was dressed already in his corporal’s uniform, while Newkirk was struggling to tuck his pants properly into his boots. Kinch and Carter, staying behind, stood quietly at the back of the group.

“LeBeau and I will go in and demand the girls. If they _don’t_ turn them over to us, we’ll come out and radio back to you. Assume half an hour. If they _do_ , you won’t hear from us. If you hear nothing by 45 minutes, go to the doctor and tell him to leave camp. He’ll head into the chemist’s in town, go through the back and meet up with us. We’ll bring them all back here, and no one’ll be the wiser.”

“What if the guards try to follow him into the chemist’s, sir?” asked Kinch, turning the large radio he held in his hands over speculatively.

Hogan nodded seriously. “That’s a risk. We’re hoping they won’t; they’re camp guards, so he should be able to shake them off pretty easy. Besides, he’s a collaborator, so they shouldn’t be worried about him escaping. If they _don’t_ , we’ll have to improvise.”

“I was afraid of that,” muttered Newkirk.

Carter shifted, looking worried. “What if it doesn’t work at all, sir?”

“Then, Carter, we move to plan B.”

“What’s plan B, sir?”

“I’ll tell you when we get there.” Hogan stepped over and took the radio from Kinch, nodding to his XO. Turning back to LeBeau and Newkirk, he glanced at their now-complete uniforms. “Alright.” He took a rung of the ladder in his hands, and began pulling himself up. “Start the timer. Let’s go.”

* * *

They drove in silence, Newkirk doing his best to avoid the potholes in the road – it was hardly politic to complain about them, since Stalag 13 had the assignment to fill them. LeBeau sat in the passenger seat, with the large radio stored up in front of his feet in the shadow of the dashboard. It was only when they drew near the lights of Hammelburg, the homesteads on the edge of the city standing out in the darkness with the homey light shining from their small windows, that Hogan began to issue orders.

“LeBeau, you’ll come in with me, but keep your helmet low over your face and don’t speak unless necessary – I want to be able to send you back in again if we have to take a second run.”

“ _D’accord, mon colonel_.”

“Newkirk, same goes for you. Stay in the car, and keep your face hidden.”

“Yes, sir.”

They drove through the narrow stone-paved roads of the outskirts of the city, the old houses looming tall above the street and in the darkness seeming almost to lean out over it to cover the sky. There was no black-out currently in effect, but even so most of the streetlights had been turned off and Newkirk drove by headlights alone, making his turns slow and careful and breaking at sharp curves in the road. There was no need for anyone to give directions; they all knew the location of the Gestapo headquarters.

Unsurprisingly, the building was one of the grandest in town. Hogan had heard in the Hofbrau that it had long ago been the home of a prominent burgher family with plenty of money and plenty of enemies. The attic was said to be crammed tight with housing for the family’s many servants, the basement full of chains and cells. From the outside, it had the appearance of a stunted castle. It was three storeys tall with additional dormer windows under the roof, built of old stone and set back several yards from the street. The windows were narrow and the panes laced heavily with lead; a lot of the glass looked as thick as bottle-bottoms. The front door let out onto a wide set of steps, on the top of which two guards stood at attention before two bright swastika flags, the red providing colourful backdrops to the black of their uniforms. It looked very much like an urban fortress.

Newkirk parked in front of the doors, killing the engine and tucking his chin low to his chest as ordered. LeBeau hopped out and hurried back to open the door for Hogan, leaping back and to attention as soon as he had done so. Hogan sprang out of the back seat and set a quick pace up to the front steps, back straight and movements textbook; he might have been on parade.

The two guards at the door, both corporals, stiffened further into salute; Hogan returned it cuttingly. The one on the left hurried to open the door for him while the one on the right remained stone-still. Hogan didn’t give them a second glance as he strode past, LeBeau on his tail with his helmet tipped low.

The wide foyer entrance of the house had been turned into a sort of processing centre. On the left a tall oak desk – probably thick enough to stop bullets – stood, ancient and proud, on the marble floor. To the right an alcove opened into a coat-room. Straight ahead the foyer became a perpendicular hallway running right and left, a large framed picture of the Fuhrer hanging directly opposite the front doors. The picture was further ornamented by a pair of flags, which themselves were ornamented by another pair of guards standing ramrod-straight. Neither looked at Hogan as he entered; they remained staring ahead, eyes severe.

Hogan stepped over to the desk, his heels clicking on the marble, and pulled the papers Newkirk had forged for him from his breast pocket.

“Major Brewer here for the two Kirche girls,” he growled, slamming the papers onto the desk without looking at them. The higher ranking of the two desk jockeys, a lieutenant with a black eye-patch covering his right eye, took the orders and unfolded them quickly. After reading them through twice he looked up, expression carefully blank.

“I am sorry, Herr Major, but these orders are not signed by Colonel Veheim.”

“I am aware of that,” spat Hogan. “I _also_ am aware of whose name _is_ on them.”

The lieutenant glanced back down at the crumpled paper. “Colonel Meyer. I have not heard of him.”

“Have not heard of him,” said Hogan, flatly. “You have not heard of Colonel Meyer. And I suppose you have not heard of Lieutenant Flakmann, either?”

The lieutenant glanced at his companion, having to turn out of his way, the man being on his blind side, and then back again. “I’m afraid not, Herr Major.”

“Lieutenant Flakmann was sent home last week. In a box. Having first been sent to the Eastern Front for some minor inattentiveness in the Major’s presence. He forgot, I believe, to shine his boots.”

The lieutenant folded the papers, and pushed them across the desk to Hogan. “That is very unfortunate,” he said solemnly. “However, Colonel Veheim is my commanding officer, and he instructed me specifically to allow no one but himself to take the Kirche girls from this building.” He paused, as if considering whether or not to venture a personal opinion, and then continued in a low voice, “The colonel is not so base as to threaten his men with the Eastern Front. There is no need to travel all the way to Russia to find hardship.” He inclined his head slightly, tilting it so that his eye-patch shone in the foyer’s bright lighting. “If you would care to call the colonel and procure his signature,” he man continued, in his previous bland tone, “I would be happy to release them to you. Good evening, Major. Heil Hitler.” The man saluted, making it clear that Hogan’s time was up. Hogan saluted in reply, took the worthless orders, and led LeBeau out the door.

In the street, Newkirk was bent over the steering wheel so that only his eyes were visible in the dark, glittering like a cat’s as he turned to look out at them. He sat up as LeBeau opened the back door for Hogan, and started the car as soon as LeBeau slid in – they had had more necessarily quick departures from official buildings than Hogan cared to count. He let in the clutch as LeBeau’s door closed, and the car was rolling down the street before Hogan had time to adjust to a more comfortable position on the worn leather of his seat. LeBeau was already digging the radio out from the hollow in front of his feet.

“I’m guessing that was a failure, then,” said Newkirk, glancing in the mirror.

“You could say that. The men in there are more terrified of Veheim than any name they don’t know. Looks like he brings some of his staff along with him to make sure no one fumbles anything relating to him in unfamiliar postings.”

“Not a bad idea,” said Newkirk, slowing to turn a corner.

“For him. For us, it sure is.” Hogan quieted as LeBeau opened the radio frequency and contacted Kinch. Told him to stand down on sending out Kirche.

Newkirk guided the black car down the long, dark streets and then out into the country beyond. Outside, it began to drizzle.

“Well sir? What now?” LeBeau turned to glance at him, helmet in his lap.

Hogan sighed, knocking off his own cap. “Now, we move to plan B.”


	2. Newkirk

Newkirk lay on his bunk, staring up at the ceiling above. The cheap wood, not sanded or planed, was rough with splinters and knots. He’d long since come to know every sliver and grain in the three planks directly above his eyes; he sometimes thought he’d still see the wood in his dreams when – if – he ever got back to London.

The Colonel had ordered them all to get some rest; with another night of activity ahead of him they didn’t need anyone slowed by sleep deprivation. Carter was twisting and turning in the bunk below his, sleeping fitfully as ever. It was typical of the chemist that he managed to cause trouble even in his sleep, although in truth Newkirk had gotten used to the slight rocking in the bunk long ago. And if he sometimes dreamt of the sea, and his childhood expeditions on the Thames with an uncle who owned a coal barge, he probably had the American to thank for it.

He would have slept easier if he’d had more faith in the plan. The goal, he supported wholeheartedly. Rescuing two women was something he would always be happy to lend a hand to – and receiving thanks if and when they bestowed it. Rescuing two women – two people – from the Gestapo was something he would never refuse, regardless of thanks. In theory.

In practice, breaking into the Gestapo headquarters and smuggling _anyone_ out, never mind two people, was more than dangerous. It was recklessly stupid.

They all knew it, Hogan included. It was a bad risk, one that was unlikely to pay off. One that could blow the entire operation here. But if the colonel ordered it, with two innocent lives on the line, no one would refuse to back him up. They had to trust the colonel to know whether to give the order or not. Newkirk trusted the man with his life, and when the word came he would jump. He just wasn’t entirely sure, after two years of wildly improbable successes, that he could trust the colonel to know when something was impossible.

* * *

Night came too soon, but they had all grown used to going out on missions with the knowledge that they would have to improvise, grown used to spending hours with their hearts in their throats. At least, as Kinch had once said, the blood got to their brains quicker. As soon as evening roll call broke up they were down in the tunnel, Newkirk quicker to get into his boots this time, although his tunic had upgraded from a private’s to a lieutenant’s. Beside him Carter was straightening his captain’s insignia, while LeBeau stood by in plain street clothes, holding the radio. At the entrance to the tunnel system the Colonel stood by Kinch, arms crossed and eyes dark.

“Right. Now you’ve all got the plan.”

“Such as it is,” said Newkirk, checking his pistol in its holster and knowing that if things went bad he probably wouldn’t even have the chance to draw it.

“You get into the building with LeBeau as your cover, find the girls, and smuggle them out,” continued Hogan, ignoring the interruption.

“What if they won’t let LeBeau out again, sir?” asked Carter, finishing fidgeting with his collar.

“He’s your prisoner, you’ve got the papers for him. You shouldn’t have any trouble there.”

Newkirk bit back another comment; two was pushing it. Besides, no one in the alcove felt any differently.

“Look, I know this is open-ended, even as our plans go. We don’t have a lot of choice but to leave it to your ingenuity – I believe you guys can pull it off. But I’m not going to force you to. If you want to step down, fine. We’ll cancel the mission.”

Newkirk glanced at Carter and LeBeau, and saw the agreement he knew was reflected in his own face. Hogan had pulled the punch, but then he didn’t have to throw it; they all knew what was at stake.

He sighed. “We’ll do it, Colonel. For all it’s a bloody bad plan.”

Hogan smiled grimly. “Good. Remember, if you don’t get in radio back immediately. If you do, you’ll have to pick up Kirche from behind the chemist’s store at 2300 hours.”

“Will the chemist really be open at eleven o’clock, _colonel_?” asked LeBeau.

“Kirche called down on Klink’s phone today and told him to in Klink’s name, and the guy agreed.”

“Shows how much he knows Klink,” added Kinch from beside him. Newkirk nodded.

“Alright,” said Hogan, checking his watch. “Better get going. The car should be waiting at the usual spot. Good luck.”

Newkirk watched Carter scramble up the ladder, long coat tails flapping about his legs, and glanced Heavenward. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

He drove again, with Carter and LeBeau in the back seat this time. Yesterday their chances of success had been good and they’d gone in silence. Today success was unlikely while dangerous failure loomed large on the horizon, and they bantered light-heartedly all the way.

“Elise and Lucrezia. They sound like brunettes to me, not too tall, with beautiful smiles,” said LeBeau, gesturing descriptively to Carter. Newkirk, glancing in the mirror, caught the expression of careful concentration on Carter’s face and rolled his eyes.

“I don’t know,” said the American after a moment, “They could be blonde, y’know. That doctor, his hair was pretty light.”

“He was greying, _mon_ _ami_. It is not at all the same thing. I am telling you, they will be brunette with wonderful smiles and legs up to here.”

“It’s been a while since I met a redhead,” put in Newkirk speculatively.

“Who would name a redhead Lucrezia,” dismissed LeBeau.

“Maybe she was born blonde, and it changed!”

“That could happen; my kid sisters, they had real pale blonde hair and then around when they turned eight –”

Newkirk cut the man off. “Carter?”

“Yeah?”

“Never mind.”

* * *

It was a clear night, the clouds from the day before having dissipated, leaving the sky clear and the stars shining in the dark strips of sky above the narrow streets. Beautiful, and dangerous in case of pursuit.

Their conversation died out as they drew closer to the Gestapo headquarters, Newkirk’s mouth drying along with his interest in bantering. In the back seat Carter pulled out his revolver – the first chamber empty in case of accident – and sat with it in his lamp, as close to still as he ever came when not actively playing a part. LeBeau shrank down into himself, large coat creeping up towards his jaw and giving him a turtle-like appearance in the mirror. Newkirk gritted his teeth and tightened his hands on the wheel.

They pulled up in front of the ancient residence in silence, Newkirk taking a deep breath before he killed the engine. “Good luck, chaps,” he muttered, and opened the door. There was no going back now.

He slid fluidly into character, a proud lieutenant with a hard taskmaster riding him, and hurried to open the door for Carter and LeBeau. The Frenchman came out first, shoved by Carter holding the gun in his back. Newkirk grabbed LeBeau by the arm, pulling him sharply to heel when the man tried to yank away, and began escorting him up the path to the building. Carter closed the door and followed along behind, footsteps even on the flagstones.

The guards saluted as they drew close, Newkirk returning the gesture with a nod, hands full with the struggling LeBeau. The smaller man played his part to perfection, fighting enough to be convincing without actually managing to escape, and cursing the whole while in bitter French.

The man on the right opened the door for him and he dragged LeBeau into the foyer, taking in the desk, the hallway and the guards in one quick look. Carter stepped around him while he fought to keep LeBeau in one place, and marched up to the desk.

“Good evening,” he began, in a harsh tone nearing that of his Hitler voice. He continued without waiting for the lieutenant – a tall thin man with an eye-patch – to answer. “I am Captain Grossman, from Dusseldorf. My lieutenant and I caught this –” he gestured at LeBeau with a tilt of his head, “this evening, returning from a meeting in Wurzburg. I believe he may have information of immediate interest to my colleagues. May I have the use of one of your cells for a few hours? I do not wish to lose any time in transporting him back to Dusseldorf.”

Newkirk had to hand it to Carter, he had mastered the art of making a request for himself sound like a benefit to the other man, his tone clearly indicating that the loss of his time was something neither of them wanted.

The lieutenant looked to the other man behind the desk, a corporal, who answered in a timorously. “Herr Captain, I would be pleased to accommodate you, but our facilities are small and we are currently overstretched…” he faded out into silence, watching Carter with apprehension.

Carter leaned forward to hiss over the counter. “You do not have one free cell for an hour or two? How deeply have you been combing the gutters of Hammelburg, to turn out all these men?”

Newkirk gave LeBeau a good shake as a signal, and spoke up. “Captain, if I may?”

Carter turned to him, face twisted into a harsh mask. “Very well.” He raised his gun and pointed it straight at LeBeau’s heart, the Frenchman freezing and looking up with fear in his eyes. Newkirk let him go and walked by Carter to lean over the desk.

“The Captain, he can be a bit abrupt,” Newkirk whispered, addressing himself in a sympathetic tone to the corporal, who was looking slightly shell-shocked. “Very good when it comes to interrogation, but sometimes not so able at requests. As his aide, I can assure you that, if he gets the information he is looking for, he will not be behind in writing to praise your cooperation.” He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially. “Can you really not find us a small space? It will be to your benefit.”

The corporal visibly considered it, and then nodded. “I think that we may just have a cell free – an unexpected departure this afternoon. Lieutenant, may I escort these men downstairs?”

The lieutenant nodded as well, once, curtly. “Very well. But do not be too long.”

“Yes, sir. If you will follow me…” the corporal slipped out from behind the desk and glanced at Carter, who had his back to them watching LeBeau.

“Sir, they have found us some space,” said Newkirk in his most formal tone. Carter turned, gesturing LeBeau towards the hall with his revolver. LeBeau, eyes on the weapon, stumbled in that direction. Newkirk grabbed him by the shoulder and followed the corporal.

They took the corridor left and followed it all the way down and around a corner. They passed several wooden doors and came at last to a heavy metal one with two more men standing guard. These men straightened to attention as the officers came into sight, but Newkirk could tell the difference between them and the gargoyles out front; these men weren’t here for appearance. They were here to slam doors and knock down protesting prisoners and shoot escapees, and they looked like they wouldn’t flinch at any of it.

The door, when opened, let onto a sharp stone staircase descending into a dark basement. The corporal went first, Newkirk following with LeBeau beside him and Carter bringing up the rear.

The rumours were right. There were cells here, rows of them stretching back into the putrid darkness of the dungeon. It was lit only by infrequent naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling, the wiring running along the dirty stones like some sort of primitive spinal cord. The air was thick with smells that made Newkirk’s stomach clench; dirty, uncomplicated scents that meant pain and torture and death. He twisted his face into a cold expressionless mask, and pulled LeBeau closer to his side. The shorter man was shaking, although whether with fear or anger Newkirk couldn’t tell. Behind him, Carter was silent.

They were standing at a corner of the building, and at the foot of the stairs there were two corridors to choose from at right angles to each other. One ran straight back the way they had come down the hallway upstairs, the other parallel to the front hall. The corporal paused, apparently thinking, and then headed straight. The cells had thick stone walls closed with metal doors, each door with a hole cut into it at eye level. The corporal took them to the last cell and threw it open. Newkirk stopped in the hallway, not wanting to enter, not wanting to see whatever mementos remained of the men who had been in it previously. He glanced in quickly, and was surprised to see by the light the corporal turned on that the man was in a store room, although the tools hung on the walls and the one metal shelving unit set his teeth and turned his stomach.

The corporal reappeared with a clipboard, and glanced through its pages rapidly. “Yes, here. 4D is free.” He retreated, and then came back again without the keyboard but with a key, and led them back down the way they had came. They stopped two cells down and, after glancing in the hole, he turned the key and pushed the door open.

Newkirk felt LeBeau tense beside him, and squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. They had all been questioned by the Gestapo before, but none of them as extreme hostiles. None of them to the extent of being thrown in cells like these and having the tools hanging on the office walls over dark stains used on them. Newkirk stared into the rank darkness, wondering what ghosts it held.

Behind him, Carter scuffed his feet, probably trying not to stumble backwards from the horrible blackness.

The sound, tiny as it was, was enough to knock Newkirk out of his shock and back to the present. They still didn’t know where the girls were, were all an inch from spooking entirely and blowing the whole mission sky high. He swallowed, and tried to loosen his tight throat.

“You must have many difficult prisoners,” he said, voice sounding ridiculously false in his ears. LeBeau gave a little jump, snapping back as well.

“Oh, nothing we cannot handle,” returned the corporal, stepping back to the threshold of the cell.

“In terms of techniques, certainly. I meant more difficulties of nature. Take this … _thing_ , for example,” said Newkirk, harsher insults strangling in his throat in the face of the cell. “He does not speak German, only babbles on in French. Surely you must have problems of a similar nature.”

On cue LeBeau tried to break away, muttering in his own tongue and staring into the darkness beyond the corporal. Carter stepped in out of nowhere and in one swift movement pinned the Frenchman against the wall with his forearm, LeBeau ceasing to struggle and staring at him in shock. Newkirk tried to ignore it, and noticed the corporal staring at Carter in impressed amazement.

“Language is an issue sometimes, of course,” confided the corporal. “But we have translators to deal with that. No, the biggest problems we face are Colonel Veheim’s guests.”

“He expects you to deal with them down here?” fished Newkirk.

“Oh, no. They are guests, they are seen to above. The soldiers here are forbidden to enter their rooms, but he brings along his own staff and gives them free run of all our facilities despite the possible security concerns, and worse orders us to hire day labour to see to his guests. You know Colonel Veheim, of course?” The corporal had clearly taken Newkirk’s hints, and assumed the man to be a friend.

“I’ve heard of him – who hasn’t? But the Gestapo is full of men with reputations – my captain has one of his own.” Newkirk indicated Carter, still pinning LeBeau against the wall without apparent effort, the Frenchman struggling without any success.

The corporal smiled bitterly. “Your captain may keep his reputation, with all respect. He will never come near Veheim.” The corporal seemed about to say more, but then glanced around and thought the better of it, shrinking away nervously. “Anyway. You may have this cell as long as you need it. When you are finished, lock up and leave the key in the lock; I will see to it later. Make sure to check in with me at the desk when you leave.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“No problem.” The corporal hurried away, giving Carter a quick look as he passed, and then disappearing into the darkness. His footsteps continued to click after he had disappeared from sight, rattling on the stone like teeth clattering in a skull.

* * *

Carter dropped LeBeau as soon as they heard the metal door slam, the smaller man pushing his arm away with a snarl and a stream of angry French.

“I know,” murmured Newkirk, looking into the cell. “But now’s not the time to think about it. We’ve got to find those girls and get out of ‘ere.”

“How?” asked Carter, eyes flitting to Newkirk, face pale. “We don’t know where they are.”

“Weren’t you listening? The Colonel keeps his ‘guests’ upstairs. That must be them. We’ve got to get upstairs and find them.”

LeBeau gave a short, harsh laugh. “Past the door demons? _Bon chance_. If we go up now, they will know something is wrong.”

“Maybe there’s another door. Come on.” Newkirk closed the door, turning the key in the lock with a rusty rattle and pocketing it. Beside him LeBeau muttered, but followed his lead. Carter, as ever, trailed along behind.

They walked all the way back to the corner, stepping as quietly as possible and trying to ignore the metal doors set into the cells. If the corporal’s words were true, all of them were full. Newkirk wondered if even one of the men in the basement were guilty of anything deserving this. Wondered whether you _could_ be. They walked in silence.

There were no other exits before the other door, and they turned the corner and proceeded down the second corridor. It split off halfway along, one passage running left parallel to the one their cell had been on, the other continuing on. Even in the dim light, it was fairly clear that there were no other exits in the direction they were going. They turned the corridor and hurried along, now bordered by cells on both sides.

As they passed, occasionally the sharp report of their heels on the stones drew moans from the cells. They winced, and moved faster on the balls of their feet.

At the end of this corridor was a set of stone stairs, half the width of the ones they had come down, and running parallel to the wall rather than up into it. Newkirk nearly ran up them, scrambling for the handle in the poor light and finally finding it. It was locked. He paused, and then rapped sharply on it. No answer. He sighed.

“What now?” hissed Carter, behind him.

“I’ve got me picks.” He fumbled to slip a shivering hand in through his overcoat and jacket, and finally found the right pocket. The small black case slid out smooth as an eel, and he quickly pulled the right tools from it and bent to his task.

The lock was old and heavy; the age made it simple, the weight adding only a little challenge. He had it open in under twenty seconds, pocketing his tools again and pushing it open in under thirty.

The room it opened onto was dark, and smelled of must. Newkirk crept forwards into it, feeling stone under his boots. LeBeau and Carter followed him, Carter shutting the door quietly behind them. “Anyone have a flashlight?” asked the American. No one answered.

They stumbled along to the left, more out of random agreement than any logical choice. Newkirk tripped over an uneven stone, and Carter barked his shin on something and let out a yelp.

It was LeBeau who found the staircase leading upstairs, hissing to attract the attention of the other two. Newkirk shuffled over and, looking around, spotted the pricks of light the Frenchman too had spotted; light streaming through cracks in a door up a set of stairs.

“Alright. LeBeau, you keep behind us; if anyone comes, get out of sight fast.”

“No worries there,” answered the Frenchman in a none-too-even voice. Carter didn’t say anything, but bumped up against Newkirk’s shoulder in the darkness.

Newkirk rolled his eyes and began climbing the stairs, one hand spread flat against the wall. The stones were cold and dusty under his palm, the action making a noise like a snake slithering and sending a shiver down his spine.

He paused at the top, bracing himself for Carter to run into him – he did. When they had all stopped, he reached out and opened the door slowly, peering out through the crack.

They had reached another long hallway, this one with a rich wine-coloured carpet and cheerful yellow-painted walls. Newkirk slipped out into it and looked quickly in the other direction; the hallway was empty. They had clearly come up some sort of servant’s stair into what had – and possibly still was – the living quarters.

LeBeau was last to come up, and looking down the halls, sighed. “ _Magnifique_. How are we supposed to find them in this maze? There is another floor still, as well. And probably there are guards everywhere.”

“We could split up,” suggested Carter.

“And tell them what when they caught us?” demanded LeBeau. “Just stretching our legs?”

“What’ll we tell them if they catch us all together?” countered the American. “Boy, this is some mission alright.”

Somewhere in the building, a door slammed shut. All three of them started; Carter yanked the door open and they shot down into the darkness like rabbits into a hole. After a while, Newkirk heard footsteps pass by, then diminish again into silence.

“Alright, look,” he hissed. “We don’t ‘ave time to be running around this place. If you were keeping someone temporarily, where would you do it?”

“…Upstairs,” said LeBeau at last. “They would take the lower floors for themselves first; less walking. And if there were bedrooms, they would not have them below the offices.”

“Makes sense,” added Carter.

Newkirk stifled a comment and nodded, although none of them could see it. “Alright. We find the stairs, we get up, and then we search. Quick and quiet. We run into anyone, we’ll tell ‘em we’re looking for Veheim.”

“Veheim,” hissed LeBeau, furious. “What if they find him for us?”

“D’you ‘ave a better suggestion?”

A long string of French, which Newkirk took for no. “Then let’s get this over with.” He straightened, opened the door, and hurried out into the bright hallway again.

The stairs leading up proved to be only two yards from those leading down, and they hurriedly scrambled into the narrow staircase, this one framed by the same cheery yellow walls. Its narrowness, however, and the unevenness in the steps suggested that it too was the servants’ stairs.

Newkirk paused at the mouth of the stairs, heart pounding, and listened for a good several seconds. Hearing nothing, he ventured out into the hallway. Like the one below, it was long and bright and empty. “Okay. Carter, you work your way left. LeBeau, stay here, we can’t have anyone spotting you.”

The Frenchman made no protest, simply slipped back down into the relative safety of the staircase. Newkirk stepped out into the hall and opened the first door he came to, hand reaching for the gun he couldn’t use, heart in his throat.

Empty. He sighed, and moved to the next.

* * *

He had worked his way almost to the end of the hall when Carter gave a quiet breathy whistle, some bird call that Newkirk, mostly only familiar with pigeons, didn’t know. He turned and jogged down, LeBeau emerging from the stairwell to join him.

Carter was standing in front of the last doorway but one; in front of him the door was still closed. Newkirk raised his eyebrows.

“It’s locked,” explained the sergeant. Newkirk sighed, but pulled out his picks. Really, it was surprising they hadn’t come across a locked room before now. But then all the ones he had opened had been uninhabited, dust sheets and the smell of mothballs pervasive.

The lock, old and without the weight of the dungeon door, snapped open in under ten seconds, Newkirk returning his picks to a more readily accessible pocket in preparation for future use. Carter turned the knob and pushed it open; it slid inwards silently on recently-greased hinges.

The inside of the room was dark, but the poor light slanting in from the thick windows opposite the door was enough to illuminate a large bed directly beneath the glass. And, shining like pale gold in the starlight, two heads of fair hair. Bingo.

Beside him, LeBeau sucked in his breath and tensed, gesturing excitedly. Newkirk nodded and then, reaching out, knocked quietly on the open door. In the bed, one of the girls shifted. “Hit the lights,” he whispered to Carter, standing on that side of the doorway. The American reached out and flicked the lights on.

Light streamed into the room from the overhead fixture, revealing a small bedroom whose wooden floor was covered with a wide rug. The large wooden-framed bed was covered with a heavy white spread of what looked like expensive linen. Beneath it, the two girls shifted, and then startled awake.

Newkirk startled as well, and felt the reaction run through the other two men.

They weren’t girls. They were _children_.


	3. Carter

Carter stared in shock at the two children in the grand bed, two tiny little blondes with sleepy eyes that were quickly widening in fear. The elder couldn’t have been above eight, the younger perhaps four. And both, he recognized, were nearing terrified tears at the sight of the three strange men in their doorway. Beside him, Newkirk and LeBeau appeared to have frozen up completely, staring with near equal shock at the children.

Carter quickly snatched his cap from his head and stepped in, keeping his movements gentle and open and watching with careful eyes as they drew away from him.

“Hello, frauleins. We have come to pick you up; your father sent us to take you to him. He wants to see you very much,” he spoke softly, voice nearly catching in the attempt to keep it quiet and reassuring. He had never spoken calmly in German before, never used it for anything but snarling threats and orders. For pouring out all the anger and frustration he hardly noticed as simple Andrew Carter.

In the bed, the girls huddled together, but their immediate fear faded somewhat. Carter took another step forward, boots soft on the worn rug. They were so young, too young for this life, this war. He couldn’t imagine his own sisters living locked up in the top of a place like this, sisters these girls reminded him of strongly. Sisters he would never let a war endanger.

“The colonel says we can’t see Papa until his work is done,” said the older one, in a tone that suggested the phrase had been memorized from long experience, watching him closely with deep blue eyes.

Carter nodded seriously, honestly. “That’s right. But tonight, your Papa worked very hard and finished it, so he could see you. He wants to take you somewhere nice.”

“Will the colonel be there?” asked the younger, eyes wide. She would, thought Carter, have made a wonderful little china doll, all curls and dimples and innocence.

The question made him tense, but the heavy uniform hid the motion. He answered in an easy, unaffected tone, “No, definitely not. Just you and your Papa, and some new friends.”

“Papa doesn’t like the Gestapo,” burst out the younger one again, glaring at his uniform. Her sister hushed her furiously and pulled her back, shrinking away herself in fear. Carter’s heart twisted; behind him LeBeau made a low sound in his throat.

Trying to ignore the implications of the movement, trying and failing to reassure himself by the lack of apparent bruises on the girls’ faces and arms, he stepped closer again and spoke in a low voice. “Can you keep a secret? It’s a very big secret.” Behind him, Newkirk hissed. He ignored him.

The little girl nodded, childish suspicion written plain across her face. The other watched him with an almost adult caution that twisted his heart further. “I’m not really from the Gestapo. Neither are my friends. I come from America – my name is Andrew. They are from Britain and France. We rescue people and help them go somewhere safe. That’s why we’re here.”

“ _Carter_ ,” whispered Newkirk, furious. Carter smiled at the girls, glancing at Newkirk out of the corner of his eye.

“D’you want them to come with us, or not?” he asked quietly in English, without turning his face away from the children.

“And if they give us away?” returned Newkirk sharply.

“If we carry them screaming through the halls, they’ll give us away for sure.” He looked back to the children again, eyes soft. “We need to hurry, okay?”

The girls glanced at each other. “You’re really not German?”

“Nope,” said Carter, grinning. LeBeau upstaged him.

“That’s right, _mes cheres_. I am surprised you couldn’t tell from his accent!” LeBeau’s own accent was appropriately terrible, and the children giggled quietly.

Carter waited for them to finish, still smiling gently. “So shall we go?”

The elder nodded cautiously, head canted to one side as she made up her mind. “Alright.” She nudged her sister out of the bed, the younger girl scampering forward like a young monkey across the floor, earlier suspicion completely replaced by bright inquisitiveness. When she reached Carter she straightened boldly and held out her hand to be shaken. He obliged, bending down to be closer to her height.

“Nice to meet you…?”

“Elise,” said the little girl proudly. “That is my sister, Lucrezia. She looks like mama. _I_ look like Papa,” she confided. Carter smiled, then looked around behind him to where the others were standing.

“Nice to meet you, Elise. There are my friends, Peter, and Louis. They’ll help you get to your Papa.”

The two men smiled, LeBeau widely, Newkirk awkwardly. “We need to hurry,” said Newkirk, glancing at Carter and then the girls, standing in their white linen nightgowns with bare feet half-buried in the carpet. “Do you have shoes and socks?”

Lucrezia was already pulling them out from under the bed; Elise looked around and, spotting her sister, tottered back over to her. Carter straightened and stepped back, standing so he could keep an eye both on the girls and pay attention to his companions.

LeBeau had moved to wait partially in the hallway, keeping a look-out. Newkirk drew Carter back with a quick hand, hissing in his ear as the girls pulled on their socks. “How come you’re so ruddy good with kids?”

“I’ve got two little sisters,” said Carter, watching the children rather than Newkirk. “I was in high school when they were that age; I looked after them a lot.”

Newkirk nodded, apparently reassured, and spoke briskly “Right. Keep them quiet, then. And for God’s sake don’t let them tell anyone we’re not Gestapo.”

“That is well and good,” cut in LeBeau, glancing at them and then back at the hallway. “But how are we to get them out of here? All the exits are guarded, and we can’t fight our way out with the little girls.”

“We can’t fight out way out _at all_ ,” said Newkirk. “But maybe… this might work for us, you know.”

“ _Quoi_?”

“It’ll be a lot easier to smuggle out two kids instead of two full-sized birds.” Newkirk glanced speculatively at the two children, the elder helping the younger with her laces. His forehead crinkled, and he looked back sharply to LeBeau. Carter followed his gaze, but couldn’t follow Newkirk’s thoughts. The man sighed, shifting his weight heavily. “I’ve got a plan, but it’s not a good one.”

“Worse than the _colonel’s_?” asked LeBeau from the doorway.

Newkirk considered. “Probably not,” was his eventual answer.

“Well, we agreed to that, so I don’t see why we won’t agree to this,” said the Frenchman.

“Carter?”

“I don’t have anything better,” said Carter. And then, in German to the girls, “Remember your coats too.”

Lucrezia, just finished with Elise’s shoes, hurried over to a large wardrobe easily twice her sister’s height. From it she pulled a pair of thick wool coats, both dyed bright red. All three men winced, Newkirk muttering something about hunting season. The girls put the coats on, oblivious, and then walked over hand in hand to stand beside Carter. They had put on thick dark stockings as well under shining patent-leather shoes; clearly they had been provided with the best. It was one comfort, at least.

“Alright,” said Newkirk, voice wavering slightly as he tried to keep an optimistic smile on his face. “Let’s go see your Papa.”

* * *

Carter followed Newkirk and LeBeau with the two girls walking on either side of him, each holding a hand. They were tiny in his, and both warm with the high temperature of children just out of bed. He was careful to warn them not to speak at all, and certainly not to use their names inside the building.

They descended the several flights of stairs into the basement in an awkward bunch. Newkirk went first, scouting ahead with one hand on the wall and his back held unnaturally straight. LeBeau followed, even more reluctant, glancing back frequently. Finally Carter came with the girls; his pace was slowed significantly at first by little Elise who had to take each stair individually, until he simply picked her up and carried her on his shoulders. Lucrezia hurried down the narrow stairs just behind him, hiding behind his coattails.

Carter could feel the anxiety in Newkirk and LeBeau, and himself as well, thrumming like a bow string now that the most difficult part of their mission was fast approaching. It was like a game of chicken; they were coming up quickly on the point of action, and they had no idea if it was going to be successful. And, now with two children’s lives resting on their actions, they couldn’t contemplate failure anymore. There was no chance of simply dropping them and running if things went wrong.

Carter felt the girls shiver when they entered the dungeon, Lucrezia shrinking into the protection of his side while Elise crouched down low against his shoulders, little hands taking a tight hold of his captain’s cap. The smell was worse for the time they had spent out of it; he had already forgotten how terrible it was. Not just the strench, but the horrific implications behind it. All the people they couldn’t save. He jogged through the gloomy corridors past the cells, and forced himself not to look to the side, not to think about it. Not to risk the mission trying to help them. He had never wanted to destroy something so much in his life. Never wished so hard for a single stick of dynamite to throw into the foyer upstairs with those guards standing tall and proud in their black uniforms designed to terrify.

Newkirk led them back to the store room near the cell they had been assigned, pausing only for a few seconds to pick the lock.

Carter stayed out in the hallway with the girls while Newkirk and LeBeau went in, carefully keeping the children far enough down the hall that they couldn’t see into the small room. Couldn’t see what was hanging on the walls.

“There, in the corner. Grab the stretcher, and those blankets.” Newkirk’s voice echoed out, low and hoarse.

LeBeau made a sound of disgust. “They are filthy.”

There was a clink of metal, and then the sound of a pen scribbling. “Get ‘em anyway. They’re our ticket out of ‘ere. Bring the stuff out into the ‘all and put it down.”

They reappeared a moment later, LeBeau carrying a canvas stretcher supported by two wooden poles rolled into a cylinder over one shoulder, and a heap of lumpy woollen blankets under the other arm. He laid the stretcher down on the ground and kicked it open as Newkirk came out and shut the light and the door.

“Good. Now get on it.” Newkirk motioned to the stained canvas. LeBeau muttered something, but lay down as he was told, dropping the blankets beside him. Newkirk nodded and turned to Carter and the girls, eyeing the children apprehensively.

“Alright,” he said, and Carter could see him straining not to clasp his hands in uncertainty at addressing them. “We need to take you out of the building, but the men working here can’t know it. It’s a secret, so we can bring you to your Papa, right?”

The children said nothing, Elise shifting uncertainly on Carter’s shoulders.

“We’ll carry you out with Le – with Louis here. So you need to lie down, and we’ll cover you with blankets. Just like hide and go seek. But you have to be very quiet – silent as little mice.” He paused, then looked pleadingly at Carter.

Carter reached up and lifted Elise down, then knelt down at the foot of the stretcher. “That’s right. You said you don’t like the Gestapo right, Elise?”

The little girl shook her head firmly, blonde curls a bright streak of gold in the gloom.

“So you’ll help us trick them, right? To trick them, you just have to lie on the stretcher, very still and quiet. Don’t move at all, no matter what anyone says or does.”

“So we can go to Papa?” asked the little girl, eyeing LeBeau and the stretcher with childish distrust.

“That’s right,” praised Carter.

“Come on, little frauleins,” said LeBeau, sitting up and smiling. “You can help Uncle Louis trick the Gestapo, right? And then when we get you back to your Papa, I will make you a delicious breakfast – crepes and blueberry sauce. Just lie still as a dummy and we’ll bring you to him, quick as lightning!” He fell back theatrically, legs rising in the air when his back hit the ground. The two girls giggled, and Elise scrambled onto the stretcher beside him. He opened his eyes and helped her lie down beside him, curled in against him. Carter directed Lucrezia to lie along his legs, her head at her sister’s feet and her own feet lying just a few inches past LeBeau’s.

Carter picked up the blankets, shaking them out and ignoring the stains. “Alright, now the blankets. Remember, we’re pretending you’re not there, just Uncle Louis. So don’t move, and don’t speak – not even if you hear shouting. We’ll look after you.”

Elise nodded, eyes closed and face pressed tight against LeBeau’s side; the Frenchman patted her head, expression fierce. Lucrezia watched Carter seriously, but gave a weak smile when he grinned at her. Then he spread the first blanket over them, covering LeBeau from feet to neck.

The effect wasn’t entirely unbelievable, although the guards would remember that LeBeau was much thinner than he appeared now. Newkirk quickly spread another blanket over LeBeau’s chest, bunching it unevenly here and there, and Carter draped another over his legs. LeBeau, eyes open, watched the arrangement sharply.

“Don’t worry Louis, we’ll get you out.” Carter finished and stepped back, straightening his cap.

“It’s not me I’m worried about. You just see the girls get out safely.” He turned to stare at Newkirk, who nodded.

“Leave it to us.” He stepped around and bent to pick up the head of the stretcher, Carter doing the same for the feet. They lifted together, even with the two girls the weight not cumbersome. The wooden poles were smooth in his hands, worn with use. Carter set his face, glanced back to catch Newkirk’s nod, and started down the long corridor.

* * *

The stairs were managed without too much difficulty, Newkirk lifting high to keep the blankets from shifting and revealing anything. Carter kicked at the door with his toe and felt his expression twisting angrily before the door had even been opened by one of the two guards.

“What were you waiting for,” he snarled, striding out so fast that Newkirk had to jog to keep up. The guards stiffened, glancing down at LeBeau and then back up at him.

“Do you need help, Herr Captain?”

“Not from you fools,” he said, voice harsh, and then to over his shoulder Newkirk, “Keep up!”

“Yes, sir!”

He took up a quick pace, storming down the hallway, turning at the corner. The two guards standing beside Hitler’s picture turned as he came into view around the corner. One glanced at the other, then hurried forward.

“Herr Captain, may I help you?”

“You are all very helpful when I am leaving. Where were you when we arrived? No, never mind,” he snapped as the guard bent to take the stretcher for him. “We managed this far. Or do I seem too weak to you?”

“No, Herr Captain!” the man saluted. Ahead, the corporal appeared hurriedly, looking startled. He too glanced down at the stretcher. Carter remained staring straight ahead, neck so tight it was beginning to ache, and the man quickly raised his eyes again to nervously meet his superior’s.

“I have my information,” said Carter, shortly. “I am borrowing your stretcher.”

“O-of course,” sputtered the man, hurrying forward to open the door for them and saluting enthusiastically as they passed.

Outside, the cold air on his face was like a splash of water after the close heat of the building. The night air smelled almost sweet, someone nearby burning something earthy, probably locally cut wood. After the dungeon’s rank warmth, it felt cleansing. He took in a deep breath, and forced himself not to consider how many others down below the street would never have that luxury again.

The two guards framing the door saluted, and one ran down the steps ahead of them. Carter ignored them majestically, sweeping down the stairs and allowing the man to open the car’s door for him.

And then, without warning, panic pounded suddenly through his veins, icy fingers twisting at his insides so that he had to bite his tongue to keep the sound back. He had no idea how to get LeBeau and the children in the car unseen.

He nodded curtly to the corporal, and hoped the sudden panic didn’t show in his face. He fell automatically into his fallback: furious curtness. “That will be all; we managed this far without your bumbling assistance.”

The man saluted, Carter nodding once dismissively, and turned to march back to his post. Sweating beneath his collar, Carter rested the stretcher’s poles awkwardly on the car’s back seat.

“Girls, come down here,” he whispered, heart thrumming quick as a bird’s. “Follow the stretcher and get into the car; keep very low.”

There was a movement from beneath the blanket, and then part of it detached and began moving towards him. He grabbed it and lifted it to form a visual shield as Lucrezia appeared from under it, gold hair bright in the lamplight, and shuffled into the car. “Sit on the floor,” he whispered, even as Elise wriggled out, red coat flashing bright as new blood as it emerged from under the dark blanket. Carter kept his neck stiff, refusing to allow himself to look at the door where the guards had to be wondering whether they should help after all, whether to come back, what was taking so long.

Elise tumbled down into the car, crawling over to her sister hunched low on the floor behind the driver’s seat. Carter stepped over to LeBeau and, reaching out with stiff arms, picked up the smaller man bodily and carried him into the car. LeBeau was light, but still heavy enough that even after a few seconds Carter’s arms were aching. He put him down hurriedly on the back seat, LeBeau shuffling out of the way of the door while Carter’s body blocked the line of sight.

Behind him he heard footsteps on the flagstones and turned, hand going for his gun as his throat constricted, only to see Newkirk hurrying back to return the stretcher. He slammed the door closed with a shaking arm and straightened, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

On the top of the stairs, the guards saluted again as Newkirk handed one the stretcher. Carter returned it, feeling sick inside and not knowing whether it was fear or disgust.

* * *

“What time is it?” was the first thing anyone said, Newkirk starting the engine and putting the car into gear without looking back at the building they had just left. Carter pulled up his sleeve and glanced at his watch.

“10:35.”

They had only been inside for 45 minutes. It had seemed like hours. It was the fear; it lengthened time while shortening lives.

“We’d better swing around and pick up the doctor, then,” said Newkirk, only a slight trembling giving away the man’s own fading fear as he pulled away from the kerb.

“You hear that, _mes cheres_? We are going to see your Papa,” said LeBeau from the back seat, sitting up as they left the guards’ sight. Carter turned to see the two girls climb up from the floor, sitting together behind Newkirk.

“Really?” Elise looked up at LeBeau, eyes wide and excited. Her sister said nothing, but turned to watch as well.

“ _Oui_ , really. He is waiting for you nearby; we will get him and then you will soon be able to travel to somewhere where you can live safely.”

Carter turned back to watch the road ahead. They were still in the oldest part of the city, and the streets were both narrow and crooked, having been built centuries ago before any concept of wide straight boulevards existed in Germanic city structure. The lamps here were bad as well, hardly one in five lit, and Newkirk was hunched forward over the wheel with his eyebrows furrowed as he struggled to get them quickly away without risking accident.

“The colonel will want to come too,” said the little girl, in a pouting tone. Carter felt his lips twisting, and refrained from looking back.

“Well, that is too bad for him, because he can’t!” proclaimed LeBeau, lightly. “Just you two and your Papa are going. He will stay here alone and complain.”

“He never complains,” said Lucrezia, quietly. Carter did look back then, but she was looking out the window, and said nothing more.

Carter was just turning around again when out of nowhere came the blaring of a horn, shattering the quiet and setting his heart pounding. Beside him Newkirk cursed and the car jerked as he slammed on the breaks and wrenched the wheel to the side. There was a flash of blinding light, and then another dark staff car slid by, moving slow after the near-collision.

Still turning, Carter watched as it pulled by Lucrezia’s window, adrenaline heightening his sight and seeming to slow the cars even further. Watched the child draw back and then duck down in a blur of red and gold. Watched Veheim’s pale face pass by in the other car, turning to stare back at them in shock, the silver insignia on his cap shining coldly in some chance beam of light.

Carter jerked around so fast he felt something in his neck pull.

“Holy – Newkirk, that was Veheim!”

“What?” The car jerked again as the corporal switched from break to gas and they accelerated. He glanced at Carter sharply. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. And he saw us, saw the girls. He turned to stare as we passed.”

Newkirk cursed again, and put his foot to the accelerator genuinely; they shot forwards between the old buildings regardless of possible oncoming traffic and turned a dangerously narrow corner.

In the back seat Elise had picked up on her sister’s fear, even if she had not seen the colonel herself or understood their words, and her exhausted exuberance had turned to fear. Her little face scrunched up, and she began to sob, long and slow. LeBeau was murmuring soft words, but as Carter looked back he saw that the younger girl was turning to her sister for comfort, and her sister was teetering on the edge of tears herself.

Newkirk glanced in the mirror, expression hard. “Carter, radio the colonel. Tell him someone else’ll have to get Kirche; we’re coming back right now. The sooner we get below ground, the better.”

“Right.” The large radio was stored up in front of his feet and he pulled it out now, the heavy weight cold after sitting in the car for so long. He tuned it quickly to their frequency and opened the channel. “Eagle, this is mockingbird. Eagle, this is mockingbird, come in.”

There was a pause, and then a hiss of static as the channel opened from the other side. “Mockingbird, this is Eagle. We read you.” In the current crisis atmosphere of the car, Kinch’s calm voice was incredibly reassuring. Carter took a deep breath and replied as slowly as he could force himself in his nervousness.

“Eagle, we need to return to the nest immediately. Someone else will have to pick up the golden goose. Repeat, send someone else to pick up golden goose.”

A longer pause this time, Carter tensing up again. When the radio crackled again it was the colonel’s voice that answered. “Mockingbird, this is Eagle. Are you in difficulties?”

“Eagle, we were spotted by …” Carter paused, they had no code-word for Veheim.

“Vulture,” suggested Newkirk, without looking.

“By vulture,” he repeated, hoping the Colonel would figure it out. “We need to return to the nest in case of pursuit; we can’t pick up the golden goose.”

Beside him, Newkirk was looking in the mirror every few seconds; behind them LeBeau was sitting with his arm thrown over the seat back, staring out the window even while he murmured meaningless comfort to the girls sitting by his side.

“Roger that, mockingbird,” returned the colonel, and all three of them sighed. “Come back to the nest. I’ll take care of the golden goose. Just make sure you don’t bring vulture back on your tail.”

“Roger,” replied Carter, and killed the radio.

“Thank God for that,” said Newkirk, relaxing slightly. They were leaving the town proper now, getting out into the more open homesteads surrounding the town. Once they got into the woods and out of sight of the roads of Hammelburg, there was no way Veheim would be able to find them. Carter sighed, and LeBeau relaxed enough to swivel around to sit facing forward.

“Don’t worry,” said Carter to the girls. “We’ll take you somewhere safe. Even the colonel won’t be able to find you there.”

Elise didn’t even look up; Lucrezia shook her head, and then ducked down against her sister.

Carter was just going to turn back around when he caught sight of lights flashing in the street behind him. He blinked; probably just the reflection of a street lamp off a window, maybe someone venturing out with a flashing.

A second later it was still there. And then there were two lights; headlights. He turned around, slowly.

“Newkirk, they’re behind us,” he whispered, not wanting to frighten the girls even more. The Brit glanced in the mirror, keeping his spine stiff.

“Damn.”

“How do we get rid of them? We’re already out of the city.” They had left the maze of roads behind them; out here the roads were bumpy but straight, with few crossroads or turnoffs. Few opportunities to lose pursuit.

“I suppose you didn’t pack any dynamite?”

Carter thought back to his previous wish for it, and shook his head. “No. Just the revolver.”

“Two service revolvers won’t do us much good against a car and a guard with an automatic rifle,” hissed LeBeau from the back.

“No kidding,” replied Newkirk, grimly. “We’d need at least a few sticks of – Carter, what time is it?” His voice lashed out suddenly in the middle of the sentence, startling Carter, who fumbled at his sleeve again.

“Uh, 10:45. Why?”

Newkirk glanced at him. Out in the darkness of the countryside, all Carter caught was the movement, quick and desperate. “That bridge the Underground’s blowing up. Isn’t it scheduled for 11?”

“I – yeah, I think so.”

“How far is it?”

Carter, no geographical genius at the best of the times, struggled to visualize the river’s location in relation to theirs.

“About 5 miles,” said LeBeau from the back seat, voice excited. “ _Mon Dieu_ , Newkirk, it could work.”

“Only if we get a bigger lead on them than this.” The engine rumbled as Newkirk floored the accelerator. “Carter, do you know where it is?”

“Uh…” Carter swallowed, sweating. A time like this, and had to let them down. He resolved to memorize all the maps in the barracks when they got back. If they got back.

“I know,” spat out LeBeau hurriedly. “Switch with me.”

“Fine. Move over.”

LeBeau edged the girls towards the door, Elise pressed tight against her sister, still crying. Carter scrambled over the divide and into the back, tumbling against the far door when Newkirk sped around a corner. LeBeau pushed his legs out of the way and climbed up into the front.

Lucrezia gave him a look of clear terror, glancing mutely behind them at the headlights. In the front seat, LeBeau was murmuring directions in a low tone.

“I know,” Carter whispered. “But don’t worry; we know how to escape. We’re good at it.”

Boy, were they ever. Two years in a POW camp, and they were best escapers in all of Germany.

“Elise and I tried to escape once; we wanted to see Papa. It was Elise’s birthday.” In her arms, the smaller girl stiffened, and then began sobbing in earnest. “You can’t escape. The colonel doesn’t let anyone escape. You can’t escape.” She shivered, burying her face in her sister’s pale hair. “You can’t escape,” she moaned, rocking the smaller girl.

“That’s not true,” said Carter immediately, without thought. Lucrezia tilted her head to look at him without raising it. “We’ll get away; I promise.” He reached out to pull them closer, waiting to see that they didn’t flinch away before completing the gesture. “Escaping’s what we’re best at. So don’t worry. Don’t even think about him. Just trust me.”

“I want Mama,” sobbed Elise, words muffled against her sister’s coat; Lucrecia hugged her closer, and rested her own head against Carter’s shoulder.

“It’ll be alright,” said Carter, unable to think of anything else, repeating the only words that occurred to him as he watched the two girls. “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.”

He looked up and caught sight of Newkirk’s eyes in the mirror, watching him intensely. The Brit nodded.

“10:50,” said LeBeau.

The engine roared.


	4. LeBeau

The Fränkische Saale ran all year long in a wide bed it had long ago cut out for itself. In the dry summer months the water was not much deeper than knee-height, but in the spring when the snows melted the water ran high and fast. Even in the depths of winter the river was too deep and strong to freeze. Now in mid-autumn, LeBeau estimated the water would be about waist deep, running quick enough to make fording difficult but not impossible.

The Lindesmühlsteg bridge spanned the river at one of its widest points; the wooden slat bridge was nearly forty yards long, with the river itself running beneath more than twenty of those yards. The rest was taken up by the shallow slope of the bank leading down to the river on either side. The bridge was less impressive than the long trestle-bridges built to run over deep gorgers and canyons, which the Stalag 13 operation and the Underground had long ago blown up, but its destruction would do at least as much damage; a truck could no more pass the river than a canyon.

LeBeau had been on more than enough missions to be well familiar with both the bridge and the surrounding area. He found now, with the dark and the adrenaline, that he had overestimated their distance from the bridge; they would be up on it in perhaps four minutes at the most, and there were still seven minutes on the clock.

“We are going too fast,” he whispered to Newkirk, glancing in the mirror at Carter and the children. Carter met LeBeau’s eyes with anxiety reflected in his own, and then looked back to the girls. LeBeau followed his glance, saw the girls huddled like a pair of kittens against each other in the wide back seat. He continued, words hissing out from between clenched teeth, “We will both pass the bridge before the explosives go off.”

“What would you like me to do, put on the ruddy breaks?” snapped Newkirk, sweating. Still, he eased off on the accelerator, and the car slowed. Behind them, the other staff car leapt forward to close the distance, headlights flashing menacingly as it grew nearer.

They had one point on their favour at least: the fields on either side of the narrow road were too rough for a staff car to drive through, and with Newkirk driving unevenly in the middle of the road there was no chance of them being passed. LeBeau turned to look out the back window. In the darkness of the countryside, all he could see was the blinding headlights behind them. Which meant that, when the gunfire broke out, they had no warning.

At the first thundering crack of shots, Newkirk slammed on the accelerator and wrenched the wheel to the side, causing the car to buck and throwing LeBeau hard against his seat. In the back, Carter pushed the children forward onto the car’s floor behind Newkirk’s seat, crouching down himself in the space behind LeBeau’s and keeping an arm over them. The back window shattered, spreading glass over the now-empty back seat like confectioner’s sugar. LeBeau and Newkirk both ducked low, Newkirk leaning forward over the wheel and cursing fluently in such a strong cockney accent LeBeau could only make out one word in three. Behind him, the little girls were howling, Carter whispering softly and shuffling over to pull them closer to him.

The shooting stopped as suddenly as it had started, and LeBeau let out the breath he hadn’t been consciously holding all at once. Newkirk stopped making the car fishtail along the road and took up a straighter course again, breathing heavily through his teeth.

“How far?” he asked, still bent low with his shoulders hunched up high and tense. His helmet had fallen over his eyes, so that LeBeau could hardly see them in the poor light of the car’s interior.

“We should be seeing it any time now,” replied LeBeau, edging up from his own low position to glance at the fields blurring by in the harsh white of the headlights in search of a landmark.

“Time?”

“10:54.”

Newkirk hissed between his teeth again, apparently out of profanities. LeBeau was not, and demonstrated it.

“You said it,” muttered Newkirk. In the back the children had quieted with the cessation of shots, and Carter had started humming in a low, thin voice. It was no tune LeBeau knew, and if there were words he couldn’t make them out. Newkirk eased up on the accelerator again, less dramatically this time. Outside the windows the fields were still rolling by, grey and grim, all harsh lines and shadows. The chase was silent except for the steady hum of the engine and Carter, more whispering than singing some foreign lullaby behind them to the two girls, now too afraid even for tears.

“Alright, ‘ere’s the plan,” said Newkirk tersely, out of nowhere, causing LeBeau to look over at him sharply. Carter didn’t miss a beat, but out of the corner of his eye LeBeau saw him glance up. Newkirk was staring rigidly ahead, jaw set tightly, voice rough and dry as though he’d been chain smoking for hours. “As soon as we cross the ruddy bridge, I’ll make a sharp right. I’ll run us down to right next to the river and turn to run us along beside it. I’ll ‘ave to break to make the turns; when I pull along side o’ the river, you, Carter and the kids tumble out and into it. You two carry ‘em across and get back to camp; take the radio with you so you can call the colonel for a ride if you need it.”

“Newkirk,” began LeBeau. Newkirk cut him off, harsh and immediate.

“We don’t ‘ave time for discussion.” He glanced at LeBeau and then, deliberately, flicked his eyes towards the back seat. Looked back at LeBeau, hard. “Pick up the bloody radio.”

LeBeau, feeling frozen inside, nodded slowly. “Okay, Peter.” He did as he was told, throwing the radio’s strap across his chest, and then turned stiffly. “Carter, hand me Elise.”

The little girl looked up at her name, eyes red. He reached down for her, Carter helping to hand her over. The little girl started to cry again when she was pulled away from her sister; LeBeau immediately cradled her and began hushing her. “No, no, don’t worry. We are only going out for a short trip. Your sister is coming too. But we are going swimming and it will be very cold; you must hold onto me tightly, alright? Remember, hold on very tightly.” He kept murmuring the instructions as he watched Newkirk over her head.

“What about you?” asked Carter quietly from the back. He was still crouched on the ground, now holding the elder girl close to him, face white under his black captain’s hat.

“I’ll give ‘em a bloody run for their money,” returned Newkirk, without looking. And then, before anyone could protest, he went in German for the girls’ benefit, “Get ready, and remember the car will still be moving. Just jump out quick as you can.”

LeBeau, holding Elise tight against his chest, turned to look out the windshield. Up ahead in the headlights, the dark strip of road snapped without warning into the lighter grey of wood: the Lindesmühlsteg bridge. He glanced at his watch. 10:56.

The car was rumbling over the slats before there was any time for thought or reflection, Newkirk stiffening behind the wheel. LeBeau put his hand on the door’s handle, fingers trembling. In the sweeping white beams running ahead of them the bridge came to an end, disappearing into blackness as suddenly as it had appeared.

“Right,” said Newkirk. “Good luck.” Newkirk wrenched the wheel hard, spinning the car cruelly to the right, wheels skidding over the dusty road. Then they were bumping down the uneven embankment, black water shining ahead of them. LeBeau started; this was it. It was too soon, they needed more time, they needed – there would never be enough time for this. But it was still too soon.

“ _Bonne chance,_ ” replied LeBeau, because there was nothing else he could say.

“Peter –” choked out Carter, not ready and without the time to find it.

“Now,” snarled the Brit, face harsh in the poor light, and slammed on the breaks and twisted the wheel again. LeBeau threw the door open, and rolled out.

* * *

LeBeau hit the ground hard on his shoulder, turned once, and hit the freezing water back-first. The shock was enough to drive all the thoughts out of his mind; he had only two instincts: to keep his head up, and to not let go. Somewhere outside his range of attention, something thundered.

The river’s current was strong enough that it began pulling him along immediately, and LeBeau felt a surge of panic before he stuck his feet down and hit uneven ground. He pulled himself together and stumbled to a standing position, the cold water pounding against him at a height just above his waist. In his arms, the little girl had been shocked into complete silence by the fall and the cold; he held her as tightly as he could.

Only when he was standing could he begin to grasp the thoughts pouring past his stunned mind. The first was that Newkirk must have cut the turn very close. The second was the recognition of the bright burst of sound: gunfire. The third was that he was standing at a point nearly equal to their staff car’s position on the bank, the staff car which wasn’t moving. And then awareness became understanding as everything came together, like the random lines of a pencil suddenly becoming a coherent picture with a turn of the paper.

Veheim’s car had followed theirs down the embankment immediately, and must have shot out at least one of the wheels. Newkirk hadn’t gotten any further away than the river had carried LeBeau. In the bright lights shining forward from Veheim’s car, LeBeau thought he could see Newkirk huddled in the front seat, but he wasn’t sure. Three men were getting out of the colonel’s car, the front two both carrying automatic rifles. The one emerging from behind was wearing an officer’s hat and holding a handgun; more than that LeBeau couldn’t see.

“Let the girls go, and you will die quickly,” shouted the colonel. In LeBeau’s arms, Elise stiffened, her little fingers tightening around the collar of his coat as she began to shake at the voice.

Newkirk made no move. Veheim gave a gesture, and one of the guards fired a round of shots high across the back of the car; they sheered holes through what glass hadn’t fallen out of the back window, as well as the dark frame.

LeBeau watched in horror, pain all the worse for knowing he had to leave. Should have been gone already, across the river to relative safety. As soon as Veheim’s men discovered only one man in the car they would know where the children had gone; every second he delayed the chances grew that someone would glance across the river and see him standing in it. He couldn’t risk their lives, and even if he could have, there was nothing, _nothing_ , he could do. He had to abandon Newkirk, leave the man, just go…

He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. LeBeau grit them together and took a step backwards, away from the cars on the bank. And another.

They had to protect the children. Newkirk knew that as well as them, as well as he and Carter, and – Carter.

LeBeau looked around frantically; had the man been swept downstream? Was he already on the other side, waiting? Was he – LeBeau’s thoughts actually derailed as he spotted the man.

Carter was standing a few yards upstream from him, a figure in black with a lighter patch of colour on his back where the older girl was clinging. His right arm was a dark horizontal line, extended fully towards the car, shaking hard. LeBeau didn’t have to be able to see the revolver in his hand to know it was there. Eyes widening, he began fording his way upstream, fighting the strong current.

On the bank, the two guards were moving towards the car.

“I do not give second chances,” said Veheim.

With the rushing river all around them, LeBeau was the only one to hear the quiet click of Carter pulling the trigger to pass over the empty chamber.

“Carter,” hissed LeBeau. “You’ll give us away.”

They could help Newkirk. They _could_ ; they had the gun, they had the element of surprise. Carter could probably pick off one or maybe even both of the guards. And then Veheim would shoot him, or both of them, and the girls would drown.

They had the means to help him. And they couldn’t. LeBeau put a hand on Carter’s shoulder to pull him away.

Behind them, the night exploded into fire.

* * *

LeBeau’s first reaction was to duck, a reaction which proved near-disastrous when standing in a fast-flowing river. He nearly went under, losing his tenuous balance on the precarious footing; he was saved by a hand grabbing his arm and pulling him up again. Carter, he saw when he had recovered his balance, holding him tight with his right hand. Which meant the revolver was at the bottom of the river.

Panting hard, Elisa writhing in his arms in fear and discomfort, LeBeau stared at the bank.

The bridge had been packed with explosives to ensure all traces were destroyed, the close proximity of water making it unfeasible to rely on fire to do half of the demolition work. The bridge that, as far as LeBeau could see in the moonlight, was now completely gone.

So too was Veheim’s staff care, which had been less than twenty yards away from the bridge. LeBeau had enough grip to realise the heat and impact from the main explosion had set off another in the car’s engine. As he watched, a dark figure slipped out of their own staff car and hurried back along the bank; Newkirk. From his posture, it was clear he was holding a pistol in one hand.

LeBeau glanced to Carter. The American was standing still and staring at the bank, hand still resting on LeBeau’s shoulder as if the man had forgotten about it. In the now-poor light, the pistol barked once, the spit-second of gunpowder flare not enough to illuminate anything. And then silence, except for the rushing river.

Carter shivered and looked away; noticing his hand on LeBeau’s arm he dropped it and reached around to hoist Lucrezia higher on his back.

LeBeau, watching Newkirk straighten on the dark bank and wave his arm at them, sighed. It was over.

* * *

A quick conference was enough to decide their course of action; Newkirk would stay behind to change the tire on the car, and then ditch it somewhere far away where it wouldn’t draw ties between Stalag 13 and the explosion. LeBeau and Carter would take the girls back to camp on their own, and he would meet them there when he had finished. The speed of the conference had no little influence from the frigid water LeBeau and Carter were standing in.

It took nearly ten minutes to ford the river, and by the time he stumbled out on the other side, LeBeau was frozen and exhausted. Little Elise, too, had run out of energy, and was nodding in his arms. With a heavy breath, LeBeau pulled himself up to his feet; beside him Carter did the same, Lucrezia still riding on his back.

“How far to camp?” asked Carter, sounding no more energetic than LeBeau felt.

“Three miles, at least,” replied LeBeau dejectedly.

“Think we could hitch a ride?”

“Just start walking.” LeBeau juggled Elise’s deadweight into an easier position, and began making his way up the shallow embankment.

It took them more than an hour to walk the three miles, exhausted and soaked as they were. LeBeau was only thankful that the night was not yet cold enough to be freezing, or their clothes would have hardened like shells around them. He led while Carter, with no sense of direction, stumbled along behind. The woods were difficult to navigate quietly even for LeBeau now, trampling along heavily where usually he would have snuck, the mild adrenaline rush that came with fear of capture actually warming him.

They found the tree stump more by luck and instinct than design, stumbling across it in the poor light and dropping to the ground with relief. Elise was asleep in his arms, and from what little he could see in the poor light Lucrezia was lying still and heavy on Carter’s back, arms hanging loose over his shoulders.

LeBeau waited for the tower lights to sweep by twice, recovering, before he threw the stump open and clambered inside and drew it shut after him. Climbing the ladder with one hand was awkward but not so unusual, and a moment later he had dropped down onto the firm soil below, feet aching at the sudden shock. He stepped out of the way as Carter followed him down, stump falling shut again after him.

They were safe. Safe. It seemed unbelievable, incredible. Carter, beside him, was grinning drunkenly. LeBeau, looking at the American, realised that he was as well. Well, and what was wrong with that?

“ _Bien_ _fait_ ,” said LeBeau, slapping Carter’s shoulder with all the energy he could muster. “ _Bien fait!_ We did it.”

“Boy, did we ever. I could sleep for a week.” Carter looked around slowly, eyes tracking slowly. “Where’s the colonel? D’you think the doctor’s here? D’you think they went to sleep without us?”

Carter had hardly finished asking before they heard shuffling in the tunnel, several people hurrying down towards them.

It was the colonel, followed by Kinch and Doctor Kirche. Hogan looked pressed, and at the sight of the two of them standing damp and exhausted, his eyes narrowed.

“Where’s Newkirk? Where are the girls?” He spat the words out quick and harsh as gunfire, LeBeau wincing slightly at the distasteful allusion his mind concocted.

“The girls are here, _mon colonel._ Newkirk will be back soon – he had to hide the staff car. I’m afraid we may be paying a higher per-mile price from now on,” said LeBeau. Before the colonel could ask any more questions, which LeBeau could see he was brimming with, Kirche pushed passed him.

“Elise!” he exclaimed, and took the girl from LeBeau’s arms. Carter shifted sharply, and Lucrezia appeared on the ground behind him, stumbling forward awkwardly to throw herself against her father’s side in a blur of red wool.

Hogan and Kinch stared.

“Imagine our surprise,” said LeBeau, dryly. “And now, if you don’t mind, I would like to change my clothes. And go to sleep.”

“For a week,” put in Carter. LeBeau nodded.

“Is there anything else I need to know?” asked Hogan, still staring at the children and their father.

“Oh, yes, Colonel Veheim is dead. Blown up with the bridge. Tragic,” spat LeBeau. At this Kirche did look up, eyes wide.

“Veheim, dead?” he asked, in accented English.

“Yeah,” replied Carter in German. “Definitely. Gone, kaput, kablooey.” The last two words clearly confused the professor, as Carter fell into the terms he was most familiar with.

“He is dead,” said LeBeau simply, glaring lightly at the American. “And good riddance.”

The professor shook. “I never imagined… It never seemed possible that he might be gone from our lives. He is a shadow we have lived under for… for too long, apparently.” The doctor wiped at his forehead, eyes still on his children.

“Yeah, well, making the impossible possible is kind of in our job description,” said Carter, smiling lopsidedly.

LeBeau, remembering the moments in the river before the bridge had blown, said nothing.

“I can never thank you, all of you, enough for what you have done for myself and my daughters. Colonel Hogan, if there is anything I can do –”

Hogan crossed his arms, cutting the thanks short. “All you’ve gotta do, doc, is get to England.”

The man nodded gravely. “You have my word, I will give the Nazis no more aid.”

“That’s all we need. We’ll get you out tomorrow night. Until then, those kids look like they could use some warm blankets and sleep. Kinch, take ‘em to the guest quarters.”

“Yes, sir. This way, sir.” Kinch waited for Kirche to shift his younger daughter to a more comfortable hold, Lucrezia standing unsteadily with one hand fisted tightly in her father’s coat, and then led them off into the tunnels.

They were just following, LeBeau already shucking off his damp coat, when there was a dull thumping from behind them and a cool breeze. LeBeau turned, half out of his coat, to see Newkirk scrambling down the ladder. He threw the coat off the rest of the way and hurried over to the man. Carter, still wearing the full Gestapo uniform and so unhindered by undressing, reached the Brit first and clasped his shoulder hard.

“’Lo, mate.” Newkirk, grinning, returned the gesture and then broke away to shake LeBeau’s hand.

“That was a completely stupid idea,” hissed LeBeau. “ _Completement fou_. You took ten years off my life.”

“Ten,” echoed Carter, incredulous. “More like twenty. I nearly had a heart attack.”

Newkirk shrugged lightly. “It all worked out for the best,” he said, in an almost perfect tone.

LeBeau didn’t have to look too far to see under the bravado. They had all of them faced death at gunpoint before, but it didn’t get any easier with experience.

“You guys want to tell me why you’re soaking wet? And what happened to the staff car?” broke in Hogan. They all turned, embarrassed, to see their commanding officer watching them with dry bemusement from a few yards away. He was leaning up against a tunnel wall, arms crossed, apparently waiting for them to finish catching up.

“The Fränkische Saale happened, sir. We had to jump out into it,” said LeBeau, glancing at Carter.

“Talk about your bad bale-outs, sir,” put in Carter, beginning now to unbutton his coat. With the action they all began to move down the tunnel, LeBeau reaching up to start on his shirt. By the time they reached the changing station he was ready to kick off his shoes, eager to be in dry clothes.

“Newkirk’s suspiciously dry,” pointed out Hogan.

“I played chauffer, sir. We lured Veheim down to the bridge, and when it went up it took him and his crew out with it.”

“I see,” said Hogan, dryly. LeBeau felt his eyes raking over both he and Carter as they finished pulling off their damp clothes and quickly shifted into their uniforms, while Newkirk’s dark uniform pooled dry and spotless on the dirt floor. LeBeau knew he must have gathered enough from their earlier conversation to have put two and two together, but from the sympathetic look in his eye he didn’t seem about to press for information tonight. Just as well, because LeBeau felt asleep on his feet.

Eventually, the colonel gave a weary nod. “Alright; we can go over it tomorrow. Anything else?”

LeBeau frowned, filled with comments. He was still stiff with fear from what they had nearly lost, still sickened by what they had seen. They had been on ugly missions before, but this was one of the ugliest, and he couldn’t trust himself to speak about it. Not so soon, when he was exhausted and unrestrained and his emotions were liable to flare up. He looked down and began buttoning his shirt up.

“Yes, sir,” said Carter; LeBeau glanced at him, Newkirk mirroring the motion.

“Carter?”

“The Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg, sir. We need to destroy it.”

“Carter –”

“I’ll go myself, sir. I’ve got the stuff here, we’ve still got some great dynamite left overt from that last munitions factory, and some beautiful timers and – and it’s gotta be done, sir.” For the first time LeBeau could remember, Carter put himself back on topic without outside prompting.

Hogan watched him for a minute, and then nodded slowly. “I’ll think about it, Carter. We all know what’s going on in there, and we all want it stopped, but –”

Newkirk stepped in before Carter could argue, sharp-backed and bright-eyed despite his grey face. “With respect, sir, you don’t. Andrew’s right. We can’t sit around ‘ere knowing we’re letting that go on on our doorstep. We just can’t, sir.” His voice was tight and military, a tone calculated to retain a cold flatness.

“Newkirk –”

LeBeau stepped forward to stand beside him, chest tight with sudden fire. “I agree, sir. Absolutely. I know we can’t stop all of it, we can’t fight this war on our own. But we can keep those _sales bêtes_ from doing their dirty work under our noses.” He couldn’t stop it in Paris, couldn’t stop the filthy injustices being perpetrated in his beautiful home. He hadn’t been able to stop it tonight, ten yards away and helpless as the child he had held in his arms. But here and now, he could.

And he would.

The colonel sighed, eyes dark. “Alright. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. But you have my word we will give it serious thought. Good enough?”

They nodded.

“Okay. Then get to bed. Good work.”

They said nothing, and the colonel faded out. They finished changing in heavy silence, climbed up into the barracks, and went to sleep.

In the end, it felt less like success than lack of failure.


	5. Epilogue

“Repoooort!” Klink, walking across the compound from the Kommandantur, looked worn and worried as he came over to receive the report of morning roll call.

“All present and accounted, Herr Kommandant!” bellowed Shultz, saluting.

“Very well. Dismissed.” Klink returned the salute, and turned to return to his office. Hogan quickly joined him, coming up on his right side.

“Not now, Hogan. I’m busy.”

“You’re looking overworked, sir. Must be all these guests recently.”

Klink scowled, edges of the monocle disappearing. “There are no more guests, Hogan. Doctor Kirche and his children were kidnapped last night, and Colonel Veheim assassinated, and all of the paperwork has left me verybusy.”

Hogan whistled. “Wow, sir. Any word of who did it?”

Klink stopped, turning to stare at him suspiciously. “Why would you care? You didn’t even know the man.”

“Well, if there are assassins running around the country, I’d sure like to know! We’d start locking our doors, for one thing.”

Klink gave him an unamused look, and picked up his pace again. “As it happens, you are safe. The Gestapo headquarters informed me that they suspect some sort of internal rivalry. Apparently Kirche’s daughters were kidnapped by officers from Dusseldorf.”

“Wow. They really know how to stab a man in the back, huh?”

“So it would seem. Now if you will excuse me, I must finish my paperwork.” Klink waved him off, stepped up onto the porch, and disappeared into his office.

Hogan returned the salute, watching until the Kommandantur door closed.

Then he turned and returned to the barracks to begin planning.


End file.
